Ever find yourself in a situation where the BO you're smelling is ethereal enough that you can't quite find it's source? Even those of us who are on a daily shower schedule are not outside of BO's sticky reaches. The shirt that sits in the washer a couple hours too long before being put in the drier is an unforgiving beast. The quick jog to the post office and back to your desk can be enough to overrun the blockade of antiperspirant you've plastered in your "hot zone."
When in this situation, bad as the smell may be, I must sniff out its source before I can relax, secure in the knowledge it's not me. There's also the fear that, whether guilty or not, the people on either side of me are already passing judgment on me, while the real culprit is out there, allowed to run free, and likewise frame other such diligent washers as myself.
Well, I happily declare myself sinless at last night's performance of Tom Stoppard's "Rock 'n' Roll" at the Goodman. When the lights came up at intermission, I could clearly see the exposed, inflated, reddened, shimmering right foot of the woman to my left. I smelled it all through the second act, too; but oh, how relieved I was to not be at fault.
I didn't really enjoy the play.